The Best New Horror 3

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The Best New Horror 3 Page 47

by Stephen Jones


  It was a minor miracle, looking back. Half of his life, it sometimes seemed, was spent in transit, scraping around, looking for this guy or that, hanging out—unaccountable time witnessed by nobody who would ever remember. But on the night Shelly died, Snake fortunately had been with or seen by other people for every minute of the hours in question. More amazing, they all stood up for him when it counted.

  He and Crabs had gone to Rudy’s early that evening. The two of them teamed up to monopolize the pool table for several hours, winning drinks until nearly midnight. Then they decided to go to a nightclub called Ravens, on the other side of town. They were turned away at the door and exchanged mean stares with—of all people—a cop moonlighting as a bouncer. Snake and Crabs were both known to the cop; he’d thrown them out of Ravens a couple of months earlier. Retreating across the road to Cher’s Plus Two, a titty bar favored by area bikers, Snake and Crabs met a number of other people they knew. They stayed until closing time, two a.m. By then they were in such good spirits that they decided to drink a nightcap or two at Snake’s place. Instead, they found the dead body and promptly called the police.

  What a way to go, Snake thought as he drove aimlessly around town. Shelly. She had her good side, a while back. But to die like that, to carve a hole in yourself with your own fingernails, and bleed to death . . . Jesus. It was enough to make Snake wonder how he had put up with her for so long. She must have been stone cold loco, so far off the wall that she couldn’t even see it. To tell the truth, however, he had never imagined she was that sick. Weird, sure, and the laziest damn thing on earth. But not sicko sick. Maybe Snake should have paid more attention to that shrink who saw Shelly. Maybe they all missed something then.

  Oh well. It was over now. Any residual feelings that Snake might have had for Shelly disappeared when he learned that he, as her common-law husband, had to pay to dispose of her remains. If she had any relatives, he didn’t know who or where they might be, and she didn’t leave much more than a pile of dirty clothes. She lived light and went fast, amen. Snake didn’t hesitate to choose the cheapest available cremation (the “Bake ’n Shake,” according to Crabs). Shelly’s ashes were in the jar on the seat beside him now. It was time to find somewhere nice for her.

  The ocean was too far away. A babbling brook would be nice, but then Snake considered the fact that any moving waters in this old mill city were bound to be thoroughly polluted. What about a park? Open air, a quiet setting, flowers—shit, he could strew her ashes right in a flowerbed. That would be perfect. But then again, it wasn’t so easy. The two or three city parks Snake knew of had pretty much gone to seed, neglected, overgrown, dangerous. The best one was adjacent to the public library, and it wasn’t so bad, but even there the winos used the flowerbeds as a toilet and a parade of fags stalked the shrubbery.

  It wasn’t as if Shelly deserved a spot in Arlington National Cemetery, but Snake felt obliged to do the best he could. He hadn’t been much help to Shelly in what turned out to be her last weeks alive. Plus, she had spared him the aggravation of throwing her out, so he figured that he owed her something.

  There it was! Snake knew he’d found the ideal place for her as soon as he drove around the bend in the road and saw the green expanse of a fairway in the distance. The city golf course. She would like it, he had no doubt. All he had to do now was find an attractive little spot off to the side somewhere, maybe beneath a birch tree in the rough. Hell, there might even be a clear brook in a place like this.

  Snake parked the car along an open stretch of the road, took the container of ashes and walked quickly through the weedy grass toward the fairway. It was the tail-end of dusk, so if he didn’t find a place soon he’d end up dumping her in the dark.

  There was a foursome a hundred yards away, but they were on the way in, their backs to Snake. He jogged across the fairway. The woods on the other side looked promising, but when he reached them he found the ground unsuitable. More tall grass, rocks, and bare dirt where paths had been worn. At least at the library she would have had flowers. Damn it all anyway. He was looking for the kind of scene they put on greeting cards and in Disney films, but this was just a bunch of useless country-type land.

  Snake pushed on. A few minutes later he came out on the far side of the woods, and he was startled by the sudden change. He was in someone’s backyard. Nice looking house, must have cost an awful lot. Beautiful grounds, too. Snake hadn’t tried burglary, but this would be the kind of place to start with if he ever felt like having a go.

  He had other business now. His eyes had settled on a lovely rock garden just a few yards away. Snake hurried across the lawn to it. Oh yes, the perfect resting place for Shelly. There were cascades of delicate flowers, clusters of blue, purple and white, not much pink or red. Just the colors you saw at funerals, Snake thought as he bent over and started to scoop out a hollow in the rich soil. You’ll love it here, kid. The kind of folks who live in a place like this will take real good care of you, or at least the garden around you.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Snake jumped upright. He had been about to unscrew the cap of the jar containing Shelly’s ashes, but now he froze, gaping at the middle-aged man who stood ten feet away, hands on hips. Must have seen me from the house, Snake thought uselessly. He wasn’t worried about having been discovered by the homeowner, but he was puzzled. The guy was a stranger, and yet seemed familiar. Snake could turn and run, and he knew he’d get away easily, but somehow the urge to flee had been transformed into curiosity.

  “Who are you,” the man demanded, his voice more threatening, “and what do you want?”

  “Hey, Jack.” Snake was surprised to hear himself say that. “How the hell are you, Jack?”

  The man’s head clicked back a notch. Then he stepped closer and peered at Snake.

  “I don’t know you.”

  “Sure you do, Jack. We used to hang out at the Utica Club, remember? Agricola, agricolae, agricolorum. Right? Hic, haec, hoc, ad hoc, in hock around the clock with bock beer.”

  Even in the gathering darkness, Snake could see the man’s eyes widen as he tried to digest what he’d heard. Snake couldn’t help him. He had no idea.

  “Get out of here this instant.”

  “Jack, lighten up.”

  “I’ll call the police.”

  “Why don’t you crack open a bottle of Glen Grant? We can sit down and talk twat, just like the old days.”

  The man tottered, then turned stiffly toward the house.

  “Jack, Jack . . .”

  Snake scooped up a rock and caught the man easily. The rock crushed the back of his skull, creating a wreath of pinkish-grey jelly around the edges of the impact. The man grunted once, the last of his breath forced out of him. He hit the lawn and didn’t move again.

  Snake pulled the body over onto its back. Now the wife will have to sell this place, he thought. Who knows what’ll happen to the rock garden? The new owners might well dig it up and plow it under. That wouldn’t be right. You’re going to get a real fancy burial, Shelly. Elegant casket, expensive plot. Can’t beat it.

  He unscrewed the jar, forced the man’s mouth open, and began to pour the ashes down the throat. It soon filled. Snake tamped the coarse powder down with his fingertips. Believe me, Jack, if you saw Shelly at her best you would want to eat her. That would have been when she was about fifteen.

  The cheeks bulged, Snake noticed when he was finished. Jack the Chipmunk. Best I could do. Time to take a haec.

  So long, kid.

  VII

  Tony washed down the Demerol with a gulp of Red Death on the rocks. Behind the shades, his eyes watered slightly, but he felt his body steadying. That was mental, since he knew it would take a good five minutes before serenity began to kick in and all was right with the world again . . . for a while.

  “You look happy, darling.”

  “I buried Shelly.”

  “Maybe that’s it. Where did you put her?”

 
“Somewhere out in the countryside,” Snake said with a vague wave of the hand, as if he’d suddenly lost interest in the topic. “It’s a pretty place.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  Tony had heard about it only last night around this time, as they were sitting on the very same two barstools at the El Greco. It was boring. Tony didn’t want to listen to another word about the stupid cunt who’d bled herself to death, but Snake was having a hard time putting it behind him. He kept pulling away from it, and then sinking back, like a car stuck in a rut. It was morbid, as well as incredibly tiresome.

  Tony had his own uneasy feelings about Shelly. He imagined he had met her—or was it a dream? Anyhow, he had this picture of her in his mind, like he could see her dying. It was probably because Snake had given such a graphic description of what Shelly looked like when he found her. And it had stayed in Tony’s head, making him feel very uncomfortable.

  Part of the problem was that Snake kept him jangled up in a state of constant uncertainty, dishing out the pills in ones and twos like candy. Wouldn’t sell a quantity, even though Tony had the cash. Snake wanted other things, and so he was making a move for absolute control. It was clear and simple, but Tony had yet to figure out a worthwhile response to it. Shelly’s death was a minor week-long distraction that didn’t really change anything in Tony’s life.

  The easiest thing, of course, would be to stop using Demerol or coke, period. Then Tony would be able to kiss Snake goodbye, and how sweet that would be. The big clod had lost any semblance of attractiveness he might have possessed. Not that he was ever anything but a trick and a supplier as far as Tony was concerned. The game was fun at first, but now Snake’s mean and demanding way of treating Tony most of the time was simply unbearable.

  And how could he get off the drugs? That was impossible, at least in Tony’s present condition. They weren’t drugs, they were medicine. They kept him alive. Whether that was a good idea was another matter, but as long as he wanted to survive all the pain and mental interference, he had to have his medicine.

  Zzzzzt.

  Oh God, no. Not now, not here. Tony had a terrible fear of the Pied Piper getting through to him in a public place. Even if it was only the El Greco, where some pretty weird things happened from time to time.

  Zzzzzt.

  Fucker. Get lost. Ignore him. But that never worked. The demon had continued to haunt and hurt Tony everyday over the past week, never letting up for long. The Demerol helped, but it was by no means a perfect immunity. All it did was keep the agony in moderate check for a while, so that Tony remained just this side of suicidal. The Pied Piper still got through.

  —Plasmodium. Found you.

  “Be right back, darling,” Tony said to Snake. “I’ve got to make a trip to the little girl’s room.”

  “Yeah,” Snake muttered.

  Tony slid off the barstool, wobbled for a second on his high heels, and then clattered quickly across the linoleum. Thank God the pisser was vacant. Tony shut the door and leaned against it, pressing his head to the blotchy particleboard.

  —I want him.

  “Fuck off.”

  —You heard me.

  “For what?”

  —Bring him home.

  “It won’t work with him. He’s straight.”

  —Do it, slime.

  “Listen, when he sees my cojones he’ll go crazy. He’ll tear them off and shove ’em down— ”

  Tony went blind and sagged to the damp floor, too stunned to make a sound as pain exploded throughout his body, abrading every cell in his nervous system. It felt as if sonic booms were being triggered inside his brain and the plates of his skull were about to crack open at the seams.

  Yes, yes, okay. He couldn’t even get the words out, but the torture died down immediately. Tony found that he could breathe again, he could think, he could see the slick of scummy water his face rested in on the floor. He was theoretically still alive, a fact of dubious value. Why is this happening? Why are you doing this to me?

  —Because you are slime.

  You got that right. “But you’re me, right? That’s what you said a while back, fucker. If I’m slime, so are you.”

  Silence. Relief. Goddamn, Tony thought as he struggled to his feet, I shut him up. I shut the Pied Piper up. At least for a minute or two. Turned him right off. Tony gripped the sink to steady himself and then looked in the mirror. His face was grimy and wet from the floor. He washed himself and applied some fresh make-up, regaining a little composure in the process.

  It was no good. The Pied Piper was gone for now, but he had delivered his message. Tony had to bring Snake home tonight, and whatever happened from that point on—would happen. Might even be better if Snake did go berserk and kill him. That would put a stop to all this misery. He could see the newspaper stories. An anguished biker tricked by a transvestite—Snake might have to transfer to the Foreign Legion to live that one down. Meanwhile, Tony’s tearful mother wouldn’t believe a word they said about him and his queer life. She’d hand out pictures of him as a choirboy and talk about the perfume he gave her last Mother’s Day (because she was still young and pretty).

  Why the fuck not? Who the fuck cares anyway? When you live in the shadow of the curb, where else do you expect to die? Grab the best chance that has come along in years. If you don’t, that little demon fucker will just come back and eat at you, rip away at you, until you do what he wants. Get it over.

  Besides, Tony knew that the column inches, however lurid and distasteful, would be a kind of comfort to his mother. Maybe not right away, but in the long term. A front-page murder story was better than no obituary at all.

  VIII

  The place was a dump on the outside, but the living room was nice enough. In a spooky kind of way. The shades were drawn and the only light came from a large floor lamp with a fringed shade that cast the room in a soft golden glow. The air was humid and warm, but it had a sweet scent that added an exotic, mysterious touch, and the furniture was comfortable. It wasn’t the way he’d fix up a room, but Snake decided that he liked it as he sat back in a big armchair.

  Toni was on edge, nervous as a high school girl on her first date. What a riot. Snake wasn’t going to make it any easier for her. Why should he? This was his payoff. He was going to enjoy every minute of it. On the way there from the bar Snake gave her explicit instructions. He was to be treated like a king, she was to wait on him, pamper him, baby him, indulge him, humor him, and above all, she was to tease him to the max. He couldn’t wait for that to start. This was going to be the greatest damn fuck Snake had ever had, the one he’d dreamed of for years.

  The whore looked good, real good. Her hair was quite short, and it was brushed and slicked back in a striking fashion, and it looked so wet you’d think she had just this minute stepped out of the shower. Tonight her dress was almost elegant, not at all the usual trashy glitter.

  She wore a white blouse that hung loosely on her flattish upper body, and a long wrap-around skirt that had a nice way of parting to flash her terrific legs when she walked. Toni was somewhat on the tall side, a sort of slum-pussy version of Jamie Lee Curtis without the front porch.

  “What would you like to drink?”

  Better already, Snake thought. Just being there had changed her tone of voice. Gone was the bar room hustle, replaced by such a sweet desire to please—God, he loved it. Toni was standing beside the chair, close to him. Snake liked that too. He placed a hand on her leg, just behind the knee, savoring the firm flesh beneath the fabric of her skirt. It was one of his favorite sexy spots on a woman’s body. You could feel those wires—no, what the hell are they called, tendons, sinews?—that run all up and down the leg. Neat.

  “Do you want a drink, darling, or . . . not?”

  “Mmmm.”

  Snake’s hand slid higher, taking the skirt with it, but Toni stepped aside gracefully, escaping his reach. As she did so, she contrived to flap the front of her skirt open briefly. Very nice little move, Snake t
hought appreciatively.

  “Well?”

  “Got any bourbon?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, let’s have a large glass of bourbon, on the rocks and with a splash of water.”

  “Ein, zwei, drei.”

  “Huh?”

  “What?”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I said it’s on the way.”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  A little weird, but what the hell. Snake already had a good buzz on, so nothing was going to bother him. As long as Toni did her part. From where he was sitting he could see her in the tiny kitchen, pouring the drinks. At that moment, she put the bottle down and bent over. She opened her skirt and fiddled around with the catch on her garter. It took a moment for the significance of the navy blue ribbon and the bare skin to register. Oh Jesus, she’s wearing stockings, Snake realized with joy. And now she’s showing me. Man, this is just like being in the foreplay part of a porn movie. Scenes like this were the best—the teasing, the slow seduction—even better than the wild sex that would follow soon enough. But now Snake wasn’t just another jerk-off watching the picture; he was starring in it.

  The bourbon was good and there was plenty of it in the heavy crystal tumbler Toni brought him. She sipped a pale liquid from a glass about the size and shape of a lipstick holder.

  “What’s that?”

  “Cointreau,” she told him.

  “Oh yeah.” None of that Red Death shit here. She was doing it all right, no question. “Nice stuff.”

  “Snake?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you have any metal fillings?”

  “Metal—what?”

  “Metal fillings in your teeth. Lead, silver, like that.”

  “Oh, sure. Lots. I’ve got a regular scrapyard in my mouth, everything but gold. Why?”

 

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